Therapy Session
by StoryDiva
Summary: Written for a challenge. Joan's thoughts on Kevin's accident during a therapy session.


Title: Therapy Session  
  
Author: Storydivagirl@hotmail.com  
  
Disclaimer: Yeah, don't own the characters or have any association with Joan of Arcadia. Willing to take Kevin and Adam off their hands if the need ever arises!  
  
Archive: Sure, credit where credit is due  
  
Note: Written based on a challenge from the Joan-of-Arcadia-Fanfiction list.  
  
The Challenge: Give Joan's POV (Point of View) of how her brother's accident has effected her and her family's life.  
  
**  
  
I still remember the phone call. You'd think by now that the memory of it would be nothing more than a vague recollection of time, but it's like a lucid dream. Every moment, every gut-wrenching pain, and every detail are securely stored away in my mind's eye. I can't seem to forget any of it. I want to be one of those people on Oprah or Sally Jesse who have repressed traumatic experiences, permanently deleting a small portion of time from their memory. I mean, I built a boat for God. Doesn't that entitle yours truly to a favor from the big guy?  
  
Okay, so he doesn't work on the "owe-you-one" system, but really, sometimes it would be nice. I'd recommend it the next time we talk, except I'm pretty sure He already knows what I'm thinking-that whole omniscient thing-and I'll have to endure a lecture on how things happen for reasons and all our paths are enterwined, blah, blah, blah. You'd think I was asking him to give me the power to bend people to my will rather than aid me in forgetting one night in my life or helping Kevin. In the end, all I'll have is migraine and things will still be the same: me remembering, Kevin injured, and everything different.  
  
I still see my mother reaching across the kitchen counter and grabbing the phone. It only rang once or twice before she picked it up-a cop's family lives in fear of unanswered phone calls in the middle of the night. The way my mother's mouth twisted into a grimace of pain, one of those I-won't-sob- in-front-of-my-kids expressions that's molded into my brain, the way her voice broke when she turned to me and Luke to say, "there's been an accident-", and the way terror coursed through me in that moment.  
  
Everything else is a blur, but the phone call won't go away. I see it in my dreams. I feel that same reaction-out of control and achey-every time the phone rings at night. I think about it occasionally when I catch a glimpse of Kevin out of the corner of my eye. He looks so sad and I can't help but feeling guilty, like maybe I'm responsible for him being in his chair.because when I prayed to God, before my mother was even off the phone, the first thought in my head was, "Don't let my Dad be dead." Then, once we knew it was Kevin, I kept repeating, "Let him live. Just let him live, please." It was my mantra all the way to the hospital. While Luke and I sat in the sterile waiting room playing hangman on a scrap of paper, I silently chanted, "Please let him live. Nothing else matters." I didn't get caught up in the technicalities and now Kevin is paying that price. I'm selfish and wanted my big brother around no matter what it might cost him.  
  
This comes spilling out as I sit in an ugly peach chair that smells of men's cologne and B.O. I keep my eyes focused on the floorboards where there are several small burn marks from what I imagine can only be cigarette butts, like one of his skizo patients tried to set the room on fire with a Marlboro Light. I've got my neutral face on, no smile and spacy gaze, while I chew on a strand of my hair. I tell myself to keep cool and stick to my story. I came in here planning to say exactly what I thought the shrink needed to hear-that destroying Adam's sculpture was wrong and that I realize there are less violent ways of expressing my anger with life. I have this dialogue already memorized, but when he asks "what are you feeling, Joan?" all this emotion pours out of me like lava from a volcano. And I confess my fear of ringing phones.  
  
What is wrong with me? Am I a glutton for punishment or something? Isn't it bad enough that I have conversations with God, my best friend hates my guts, and my brother is sad all the time? No, now I'm nutso. Surely, Dr. Fielding is going to lock me up. Wait until my loose lips let it slip that God visits me in different incarnations-yeah, I'll be Joan Girardi of padded cell ten at the state mental facility.  
  
I never should've said anything to this stupid therapist. He keeps asking me these ridiculous questions: how do you feel about that or why do you think that is? I want to explain to him that if I knew those answers I would totally not be here, or I'd remind him that the only reason we're talking today is because I pulled a Terminator on Adam's art work. I don't say that. I'm too chicken. Instead I shrug and kick my feet against the metal of my chair. I think I'm developing a fear of chairs now too.  
  
Dr. Fielding rubs his chin and takes notes, glancing at me all accusing like, as if I'm secretly happy that my brother can't walk, as if the broken art and the broken brother are linked in my equally broken psyche. Well, I guess when you think about the other option, the what could have been, I'm glad Kevin's alive, paralyzed or not.  
  
Again with the selfish.  
  
"Do you really think it's your fault, Joan?"  
  
"I told him that I hated him."  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
"Before he went out that night. He was teasing me about something and I told him I hated him."  
  
"That doesn't matter."  
  
"Doesn't it? I believed it when I said it. I said, 'I hate you, Kevin' and was definitely convinced that my life would be infintely better off without him around to pick on me. It's karma."  
  
"So you think your karma is responsible for causing your brother's car accident and leaving him paralyzed?"  
  
"When you say it like that, I sound stupid."  
  
"Not stupid, distraught."  
  
I roll my eyes and push my hair back off my face. I stare at him. He has kind eyes, I decide. My brother has kind eyes-it's one of those untouched things about him.even after the accident, he still can make you feel like he'll always protect you. Why would I ever have thought my life would be better without a big brother?  
  
"I think Kevin wishes he died that night."  
  
"How does that make you feel?"  
  
Again with the feelings. I'm really beginning to hate the word "feelings." I groan into my hands to make my dismay regarding the question known and respond, "What does it matter? I'm not the one in the wheelchair."  
  
"You lost something that night too. That had to be hard on you."  
  
"Do you ever wonder why things like this happen?"  
  
"I think people clamor to find reasons for things in order to process it better."  
  
"Do you believe in God?"  
  
"I'm not sure. That's a weighty conversation to have, Joan."  
  
"I believe in God. I know he exists," I state, refraining from adding onto the statement with "sometimes he's really hot too."  
  
"That's good. Has it helped?"  
  
"Ha."  
  
"Care to elaborate?"  
  
"Well, um," I pause and say, "God can tend to inspire you to do these insane things that make you look, well, insane."  
  
"Like?"  
  
"Trying out for cheerleading. Do I give off the vibe of perky all the time?"  
  
"God told you to-"  
  
"Inspired."  
  
"Right. God inspired you to try out for cheerleading?" I nod, he jots down something ("crazy, crazy, crazy" most likely), and asks, "Did this dependency on God develop after your brother's accident?"  
  
"I guess." I notice the way he says "dependency" as if believing in God is like popping pills. Won't oh-bothersome-one be pissed about that-I wonder if Dr. Fielding's gone on his "naughty" list-wait, that's Santa. I decide to get off the God topic. It will only lead me to crazyville and say, "I prayed a lot that night. It's not like I sell flowers at the airport or highlight passages of the Bible to decode."  
  
"You know, there was a time.my daughter was sick when she was little, very ill, and I felt completely helpless to do anything. I don't think a person is ever more scared for a loved one than when he's standing on the opposite end of a window while doctors try to save your daughter or brother."  
  
"I didn't-my brother and I stayed in the waiting room."  
  
"Still, pretty scary."  
  
I shrug. I try to keep my crying to a minimum, but lately I feel like a walking rainstorm. I fiddle with my scarf and say, "I doubt I'll remember it as the best time of my life, if you know what I'm saying."  
  
"Feel free to elaborate."  
  
I sigh, "I feel bad, you know, about Kevin-and I worry a lot. I worry that his being alive is selfishness on my part. I feel guilty when I complain about stupid chemistry when Kevin won't walk again. I'm always afraid- scared to bother him with things going on in my life and constantly freaking about.like what if.what if he.I get scared he'll hurt himself if things don't start working out for him."  
  
"It's not selfishness, Joan. You love your brother. And again, I want to reiterate-everything your feeling is okay. He's not the only one who lost something that night."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"It's okay to be sad."  
  
"Is it? I keep thinking it might not be so bad if I knew why it happened. Why Kevin?" I respond. It's an honest question. There are so many times I've wanted to ask God that one simple (hardly) question, multiple conversations where I bite my tongue and avoid the understanding the truth about my own life.  
  
"Do you ask God that question?"  
  
"No. He seems like a man of few answers. I think he likes us to discover things on our own. Be all that we can be and understand our choices-but what about those things we don't choose?"  
  
"I don't have an answer for you on that, but I can tell you one thing. You're not to blame for your brother's accident. No one is."  
  
I nod my head in agreement. I know that he's right. It was an accident, one of those things that happens, but it metamorphoses into something else when it happens to you or someone in your family. I mean, it's like those Lifetime movies-that stuff actually happened to some girl and that's beyond comprehension. It's impossible to wrap your brain around the suffering or to imagine being related to a person harmed in that way. There's no rhyme or reason to it-it just is.  
  
I'm not sure I can fully accept that. Whenever I think I'm moving on, the phone rings and I catch myself looking at Kevin.and I miss him.  
  
"I miss my brother," I state, not really to Dr. Fielding. I look over at him. His face is drawn tightly, as if he's trying to mask his own emotion in order to force me to confront my own, and then he smiles slightly in my direction. I glance at my watch and say, "I think our time's up."  
  
"Maybe we should do this again, Joan."  
  
"I don't have much choice."  
  
"I'm not the enemy."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And you're not to blame for your brother's accident," he repeats. This probably wouldn't help my anger management issues, but I really want to punch him in the face.  
  
"I know that too," I reply. I shake his hand, unsure how one is supposed to say goodbye to the man that listens to your darkest secrets, and walk to the door.  
  
I hear him reply, "I bet he misses you too."  
  
That's all it takes. One statement from my shrink and I'm overwhelmed with sadness. I don't cry. I've gone over my monthly allowance of tears and they simply won't fall. But I'm incredibly sad as it strikes me that I've been a terrible sister to Kevin. God is always talking to me about our choices and how everything we do exists in some freako circle.  
  
My choices have resulted in a tear in my relationship with Kevin. We used to be really close. Once a week, rain or shine, baseball game or not, Kevin used to take me to McDonalds for lunch. He never canceled on me, not even for his girlfriends, and he would always say, "How can I pass up a meal with my favorite sister."  
  
I haven't managed to bring it up in conversation since the accident. We hovered around it once. In his room at the hospital, eyes focused on the wall behind me, he said, "I guess I'm not making it to our weekly outing this week, squirt" and that was it. The end of era.  
  
I really miss him; I miss us, the way things were before that stupid, stupid phone call. I don't think I've realized how much until now.  
  
I don't pester him anymore or ask him to take me places or sneak a peek at his lovey-dovey emails from swooning girls across America who think he is "so hot" and "totally cool." He and I avoid long conversations and I play it off as being a sixteen year old girl that no one gets, but I'm not sure who I'm fooling. Kevin was always the one in our family who did get me. He must see through it. He probably stares at me and thinks, "It's because of her that I'm still here and now she's afraid of me."  
  
Everyone keeps telling Kevin to move on, that nothing has to change. Everyone, including me, and all the while I've distanced myself from him. It hurts too much. I look at him and hate myself for being the lucky Girardi. I worry every night now when the phone rings and that's his fault. I get around Kevin and a panic settles in my chest-I think about that night, that phone call, and the idea of being close to someone again who could so quickly disappear from my life.  
  
"That's what living is, Joan," a voice says from above me.  
  
I groan and say, "I'm in no mood for heavenly intervention."  
  
"Good because I actually want you to do something for me," the voice says. I tilt my head upward and realize the voice is attached to a thirty- something firemen climbing in a tree.  
  
"Lost cat?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"Can't you.I don't know.blink him down?"  
  
"I'm God, not Glinda the Good Witch."  
  
"Right."  
  
"I want you to-"  
  
"Can't this wait until tomorrow? Please. I always do what you want. Can't I have one night to myself?"  
  
"I'm afraid it's an important one."  
  
"God!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was-nevermind."  
  
"I need you to pick up food and deliver it to your brother."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Even research-checkers need food, Joan."  
  
"I know, but-" I pause. I've come to realize that wasting time asking questions is, well, a waste of time. "Fine."  
  
"Have a good night, Joan."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," I say with a wave.  
  
I start walking off and only falter when I hear, barely audible, "It's not your fault."  
  
{/fin} 


End file.
